Brunch with a Scurry of Squirrels

  A Cursed Candy Story

  Cate Lawley

  Contents

  About Brunch with a Scurry of Squirrels

  Brunch with a Scurry of Squirrels

  EXCERPT: Cutthroat Cupcakes

  Also by Cate Lawley

  About the Author

  About Brunch with a Scurry of Squirrels

  Lina, a new witch taking a much-needed day off, has her first magical creature encounter (outside of those pesky demons she met in Twisted Treats).

  Brunch with a Scurry of Squirrels takes place within the Cursed Candy Mysteries world. Disclaimer! There are mild spoilers for the third book, Fatal Fudge.

  If you enjoy reading about Lina’s backyard exploits and haven’t tried Cursed Candy Mysteries, check out the first book in the series, Cutthroat Cupcakes.

  Happy reading!

  ~Cate

  Brunch with a Scurry of Squirrels

  I loved animals.

  I did.

  Promise, with all the heart-crossing and pinky-swearing included. But…there was something seriously wrong with the squirrels in my yard.

  It was just me, on my one day off, hanging out on my patio. It was one of those oddball November days, where the sun shone so brightly and the sky was such a sparkling blue that the bite in the air had to be ignored. I bundled up and planted myself on my partially enclosed patio as the scent of woodsmoke tickled my nose.

  The plan was to finally read the book I’d bought back in September. Tracking down all of my cursed candy and putting murderous witches behind bars had killed my reading time this past month.

  Bryson had left for Austin a few days ago, Great-Aunt Sophia was at water aerobics, and my boyfriend (sort-of-fiancé) was busy working.

  Poor Bastian. He’d refused to retire from his position as ICWP’s lead detective without tying up loose ends. All the loose ends. So he’d been occupied with mind-numbing administrative details for the last few days. I offered to keep him company at Magic Beans, but he’d encouraged me to take a little time for myself.

  Wrapped in a cozy blanket, fingerless gloves on my hands, and a good paperback in my lap, I couldn’t say I was sorry to miss out on the collating and filing.

  Sinking into my comfy nest, I flipped to the first page and started reading.

  Minutes of blissful escape followed.

  But then, just as the hot hero of my novel was meeting the spunky heroine, I heard the chittering of squirrels.

  The neighbors had a sweet elderly dog. She didn’t see so well, and her hearing wasn’t always great based on the neighbors’ repeated calls for her to “Come inside right now, Bella!” But I’d met her on walks several times, and she was a doll.

  Turns out, Bella’s senses weren’t so dulled by age that she missed the wag of two sassy squirrel tails in her face followed by the teasing chattering of her tormentors.

  A pair of squirrels ran down the trunk of a tree until they disappeared below the fence line, then raced back up, evading the barking Bella. It must have been an entertaining game for all concerned, because it continued for several minutes.

  After the fourth or fifth iteration, the intermittent, frustrated barking came to an end when my neighbor retrieved her dog and brought her inside.

  No problem. Squirrels teased, dogs barked, but all was now silent and the pages of my book called. Hockey player Jake needed a good ego check, and I was ready to see the heroine deliver it.

  Four pages later I glanced up to find that the two squirrels had become six, no, seven. They were no longer racing along the fence that bordered my yard and my neighbors’. They were congregated in my yard. And staring. At me.

  I blinked.

  Still staring.

  But no. That couldn’t be, because squirrels didn’t stare. They chased and chittered, teased and leapt. They were still for brief moments only to caper away at dizzying speeds.

  Except this group of squirrels wasn’t capering. All seven were still and staring, and it was creepy as heck.

  Unnerved by their beady eyes, I retreated to my kitchen. Lunch sounded like a great idea…versus being stared at by a bunch of mutant squirrels.

  After I’d fixed a sandwich, I returned to my patio nest of cushions and blankets. Not a squirrel—mutant or otherwise—in sight. Not that a gaggle of rodents would deny me the joys of a rare sunny November day.

  I paused with the sandwich inches from my mouth. The sharp tang of mustard made my mouth water, and yet… A gaggle of squirrels?

  That wasn’t right. Not at all. What was a group of squirrels?

  And then, as if I’d conjured them, they were back. Six, seven, eight, nine of them this time. They were multiplying.

  “Why is there a gaggle of squirrels in my yard?”

  They laughed. Or at least they seemed to as all of them broke into synchronized chittering.

  And now I was feeling judged by a bunch of squirrels. Gaggle? Group? Bunch? Who actually knew the word for a herd of squirrels?

  Rather than let the question wiggle around in my head unanswered, I relinquished the work of art I’d constructed for my lunch in favor of answers.

  I set my plate on the coffee table my feet had previously occupied and retrieved my phone from the side pocket of my leggings. A few taps later and Google revealed that a group of squirrels was a scurry. I now knew that a scurry of curiously intense—and possibly judgmental—squirrels inhabited my yard but hadn’t a clue as to why.

  The hair on the back of my neck stood at attention as I contemplated the mystery of my yard’s sudden attractiveness to the small creatures. Were the nuts more plentiful here than elsewhere? Perhaps they’d decided my yard was the safest location for their winter caching of food, since I had no dog.

  Though none of that explained the staring.

  The staring was weird.

  I tucked my phone away and retrieved my plate.

  My empty plate.

  My bare, sandwich-free, crumb-free plate.

  Swear words might have passed my lips. I scanned the yard, but the scurry had…well, they’d scurried. Not a single squirrel remained.

  They couldn’t have. Could they?

  Two slices of whole grain toasted to perfection and slathered with mayo and mustard, a thick slice of ham, white cheddar, tomatoes, and lettuce. The weight of the thing alone was prohibitive. They’d had neither the time nor the ability to tear it apart—also, no crumbs.

  I stood up and shook out my blanket, as if a sandwich could be hiding amongst the soft purple folds. Shocker, my food didn’t fall out.

  And it wasn’t under the coffee table, hidden in the cushions, or under my chair. And yes, I did truly search in all of those places.

  I considered texting Bastian or my great-aunt and asking them if we had magic squirrels in Boise, but that seemed crazy, even for the magic community. No way we had our own special brand of sandwich-stealing, witch-staring squirrels.

  Though there had been that moment right before I’d discovered my empty plate. A moment that had felt an awful lot like my witchy intuition making itself known.

  But…magical squirrels?

  My stomach growled, forestalling any further contemplation of small mammals with voracious appetites and secret powers. I refused to consider any situation that wasn’t an actual emergency on an empty stomach, and the possibility of magical squirrels was not, could not be, an emergency.

  Delivery looked like a mighty fine option. There was a soup, salad, and sandwich place down the road that would get me a replacement in less than forty-five minutes. Since that had been the last of my ham, it seemed the best option.

  I made the call, then returned to Jake and Penelope. Jake had nicely bulging muscles and an attitude in need of adjusting. Penelope was clever and not about to compromise her principles no matter how hot the guy or how big his bulging bits bulged. But however intriguing Jake and Penelope might be, I couldn’t get lost in the couples’ guaranteed happily ever after.

  And why was that?

  Because squirrels.

  They’d disappeared, but I had a hunch that they were still near. Lingering. Waiting for something.

  And hunches were basically two steps away from factual evidence for intuitive witches. My magical basics (like potions and spells) might be subpar, but I rocked the intuitive witch gig. Usually. I probably should have paid attention to that funny feeling I had right around the time my sandwich went AWOL.

  Much faster than the suggested forty-five minutes, my phone pinged with a warning that my driver would be arriving shortly. I wouldn’t hear the knock from my patio, so with a final glare at my seemingly empty yard I headed to my driveway.

  A teenager pulled up in an old sedan with the shop’s magnetic logo stuck on the side. He hopped out of the car, leaving his door ajar, and retrieved two large paper bags from the back seat.

  Losing a sandwich to rodents—potentially magical rodents—was traumatic, or so my stomach had claimed as I’d ordered. If I wasn’t planning on eating my feelings, I’d have ordered the shop’s fancy version of a ham sandwich and nothing else.

  But I was definitely eating my feelings. A bowl of soup, a bag of chips, a salad, a side of macaroni and cheese (except meal size, so maybe not technically a “side”), and a slice of carrot cake. And that was what happened when I ordered food online while both starving and angry at small furry critters.

  After confirming that I was Lina Dorchester, I thanked th e kid and accepted the bags.

  It was in this crucial moment, as the savory scents of my replacement lunch filled my nose and my fingers clutched both bags, that it happened. Movement registered on the very edge of my peripheral vision.

  I turned to the car in time to catch the frisky fluffing of a bushy tail before it disappeared.

  The glimpse I’d caught had included evidence of a single perpetrator, but I knew where one troublemaking squirrel appeared, a scurry was sure to be near.

  What had they done?

  The smell of mustard from one of the bags I held was a reminder of these particular squirrels’ preferences. They liked a well-made sandwich.

  As the driver settled himself in his car once again, I peered in his back seat to find it suspiciously barren of additional bags.

  “Done with your deliveries for the day?” I asked hopefully.

  “No, I still have two more before—” He stopped abruptly when a quick glance over his shoulder revealed no more bags of food.

  Even though my reaction was irrational, I clutched my own bags tight to my body. My stash might be three days’ worth of calories I didn’t need, but it was mine. I wasn’t about to let those squirrels score my booty, and at this point, I believed them capable of just about anything when it came to the acquisition of good food.

  “I don’t understand. There were two bags. Just now, when I grabbed your delivery, there were…” The look on his confused teenage face pricked my guilt.

  Technically, I wasn’t responsible. The squirrels were.

  Those furry critters were all kinds of magic. No other way could they have managed a coordinated attack on my lunch and this kid’s remaining delivery otherwise.

  I sighed. They’d even used me as a decoy, the sneaky little devils.

  Chewing the inside of my lip, I considered my options. Not that there were many. Magic was the Big Secret that Should Not Be Named, but even assuming it wasn’t, what would I say? The squirrels did it?

  “Maybe you misremembered how many deliveries you have?”

  He stared wide-eyed back at me. “There were two bags in the back seat, like, just now when I grabbed your order, lady.”

  “Wow. Weird.” Yeah, that’s all I had. I did slip him two extra twenties, but it didn’t really help with the guilt. I wanted to apologize, but that would only raise more questions.

  Once he’d loaded his pale face and his confusion back into his car, I returned to the patio.

  I’d like to say that I refused to be intimidated by mischievous, bushy-tailed rodents with unexplainable skills.

  That I sat my butt back down in my chair, wrapped myself in my ultrasoft purple blanket, and ate my very late lunch.

  I didn’t.

  Jake and Penelope were gone. Those furry freaks had stolen my paperback. It was the last straw. First the staring, then my sandwich, and then I had to witness that poor kid’s confusion over the theft of his sandwiches, but nabbing my romance novel? It was like they’d stolen the last bit of joy from my day. It was a step too far.

  I had to escape Satan’s minions, so I fled to Magic Beans, paper bags in hand.

  I fumed for the entire seven-minute drive.

  Shocker, the fuming didn’t make me feel any better.

  What did?

  When I walked into the coffee shop, Trixie took one look at me and said, “Chai latte, full-fat milk.”

  “Yes, thank you, yes. You are a goddess.”

  Turned out, Magic Beans’ new barista had the much coveted “feel” for making coffee. She could suss out a patron’s perfect brew with a single glance.

  And the fact that she was making me a chai latte was a testament to my stress level. The last full-fat chai I’d drunk had been in the midst of a criminal case.

  I rubbed my temple and contemplated how I’d been bested by a gaggle of squirrels. Scurry of squirrels, whatever. I’d helped bring three magical criminals to justice in the last few weeks—including two killers!—and yet a handful of beady-eyed rodents had chased me from my home.

  Granted, they were super-creepy rodents, but still…

  As Trixie busied herself fixing what I was sure would be the perfect remedy to my stress, she said, “You want to talk about it?”

  “Not sure I know you well enough for this one.”

  With a glance over her shoulder, she raised her eyebrows. “Now I’m intrigued. Lay it on me.”

  “Don’t suppose you know anything about demon-possessed squirrels?”

  She almost dropped the small metal pitcher she was using to heat the milk for my chai.

  Interesting.

  I let her finish without quizzing her, because she was busy making me a fabulous drink. No need to potentially distract her while she was making art.

  When she delivered my drink, I took a sip and it was, of course, sublime and exactly what I needed. “You were about to tell me about your experience with squirrels.”

  “Was I?” Her lips quirked, but her amusement seemed reluctant. “Demon-possessed, huh?”

  I snorted. “Heck, yeah. You haven’t seen what those devils have been up to.”

  But then I hesitated. Because…well, it was all so ridiculous. Unbelievably so. The glaring looks, the sandwich stealing times two, and then the book theft—especially the book theft—squirrels couldn’t actually manage that. Not even magical squirrels. Could they?

  “You’re thinking you’ve imagined it.”

  “Maybe.” I hadn’t though. My sandwich was gone. The book, too. And the delivery driver didn’t make up two more stops and his missing orders.

  Trixie glanced at the closed office door at the back of the shop. The office Bastian, her boss, currently occupied. “I have a confession to make. It’s possible the, uh, squirrels might be my fault.”

  I couldn’t see how. But even if she’d led them to my yard like the Piped Piper of squirrels (which she definitely hadn’t done), why was she worried about Bastian’s reaction?

  “Your fault how?” Bastian I’d get to in a second.

  “I brought them from Austin? Maybe?” She groaned at the look on my face. “Probably not.”

  She’d only recently moved here, but I was pretty darn sure her U-Haul hadn’t been big enough for wildlife transport.

  “I’m going to hazard a guess that you didn’t ship them.”

  She covered her face, then she peeked over the tips of her fingers. “I really like this job.”

  Voice firm, I told her the truth. Intuitive witch here. When I spoke the truth, people believed me. “You’re not getting fired over some critter antics. Now spill. How are you responsible for misbehaving squirrels in my backyard?”

  “I’m a creature whisperer.” Her quiet words clarified nothing. I must have looked as confused as I felt, because she quickly went on to explain. “Like a demon hunter, except not limited to demons, and I don’t actually hunt anything.”

  “So…nothing like a demon hunter, which, by the way, I’ve never heard of.” Being the newest, least-informed witch in any given conversation sucked as much today as it had yesterday. It was getting old.

  “Right. So, I have this unusual magical talent that lets me know when creatures are around. My magic also draws them in.” She bit her lip. More like gnawed on it.

  “Ah, so you didn’t import the squirrels from Austin. You attracted the locals.” When she nodded, I pointed out the obvious flaw. “Except they’re not in your yard.”

  “Well…” Her glance flitted once again to the office door. “That’s a little more complicated, but probably to do with you being a frequent Magic Beans customer. Also, they’re not exactly squirrels.”

  “Satan’s minions?” Seemed as likely as squirrels.

  Her lips twitched, but the smile didn’t win. “Furry fairies. They just look like squirrels. It’s a sort of camouflage.”

  I blinked. “I’m being harassed by…” I snort-giggled. “Furry fairies?”

  Then she did smile. “Yeah. I’m really sorry. I hoped my problem would stay in Austin. That moving here would help me make a fresh, creature-free start.”

  I was being pranked by furry fairies. I chuckled, but then—“Wait, they’re not dangerous, are they?”

  “No. And I can give you some tips for fairy-proofing your house and yard.”

 

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